"Garbage Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mccarthy Wil)

meadowy lots hemmed in by gray metal fences. This afforded a very clear view of
the mountains, and Conrad saw that one of the buildings he'd thought was
downtown was in fact much farther away, in the foothills. The Green Mountain
Spire, of course, a tapering, five-kilometer spike he should have recognized
immediately, if for no other reason than because the top half of it was still in
sunlight, and glowing as if hot.
Vehicular traffic tapered away and died. They passed along a pedestrian sidewalk
and under a couple of bridges, until the area began to feel almost like a
wilderness. There might actually be wild animals here. Heck, there probably
were: rabbits and squirrels, and maybe even their predators. Would those be
foxes? Mountain lions? As the walkway dipped beneath the bridges, cement walls
rose up around it, mostly blank but with occasional attempts at ornamentation,
inlaid tiles and bas relief sculptures of deer and mountain goats and bears, of
trout in a little river, and a scene of the mountains themselves, which were
visible again as the walkway emerged. Moonlight was now the primary source of
illumination. Thank God for the superreflector glare of the Dome Towns up there,
on the round-faced Popcorn Moon, or Conrad wasn't sure he could see at all.
The boys passed some benches where a pair of ragged men slept, and here was a
genuine shock Ч there were hermits in the Queendom, he'd always known it,
crazies and addicts and social malcontents. These ailments could of course be
stripped away by the morbidity filters in any fax machine, but only with the
patient's consent. Mind control was severely frowned on, so you inevitably got
some sludge at the bottom of the societal keg. But this was a hypothetical
issue, not something that should be sprawling on a bench right in front of
Conrad Mursk, and stinking like rotten cheese.
Ho, racing out in front of Bascal once more, leaned over the benches and treated
both men to a blood-curdling shriek. They startled awake immediately, their eyes
wide. They didn't make a single noise of their own, and the look on their faces
was one of frank fear, even when they realized the scream was just some kid
having fun. They expected, what, to be beaten? Murdered? Dragged forcibly
through a fax gate until their drunken heads were clear? Now there was a bit of
teenage thuggery you could probably get away with. But Ho just laughed, and then
Bascal was laughing too, and the boys were on their way again.
And then, without any warning at all, they crested a low hill or ridge and found
themselves at the edge of the fax perimeter. You didn't need a map to see it,
there was just this big park: grassy meadows and big stone staircases, and again
with the little trees. Wellstone paths snaked through it, glowing faintly and
tastefully in the moonlight, and just beyond these stood a row of brightly lit
buildings, lining a depression that must be the Platte River.
Indeed, as they drew closer there was an unmistakable smell of "waterway" which
Conrad had never realized he could recognize. Interesting. That smell had once
meant the difference between life and death for his primitive ancestors, so
maybe it was coded in his genes. Probably was, yeah. Too much tinkering, he
thought, and we could lose these little details. Stop being animals and start
being something ... else. Self-designed, with all the foolishness that that
implies. Evolution is at least impartial. But Conrad was young, and thoughts
like that one were fleeting, like snow which melted rather than sticking.
Bascal clapped him on the shoulder, dragging him forward in the process.
"Conrad, my man, you stop to brood every time we round a corner. You're thinking
too much, and it's getting to be a problem."